


The Comfiest Armchair

by xanthippe74



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkward Situation, Bickering, Fluff and Humor, Gift Fic, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Pre-Slash, brief nudity, fic based on fanart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23359873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xanthippe74/pseuds/xanthippe74
Summary: In which Harry and Draco won't stop fighting over the best armchair in the Eighth-Year common room, Hermione takes matters into her own hands, and Harry sees a(ahem)side of Draco that he's never seen before.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 44
Kudos: 576





	The Comfiest Armchair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [herman_the_moth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/herman_the_moth/gifts).



> Inspired by the [amazing drawing](https://caroll-in.tumblr.com/post/613227892968652800/the-comfiest-armchair-in-the-8th-year-common) that [herman_the_moth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/herman_the_moth/pseuds/herman_the_moth) drew for my Tumblr ask. Karol captured the boys in all their ridiculous, stubborn glory, and I hope she enjoys the latest of many "the boys won't stop fighting and their friends decide to do something about it" Harry/Draco stories.
> 
> Thanks to [JET_Playin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JET_Playin/pseuds/JET_Playin) for the speedy beta.

“This is not how I thought the truce would end,” Hermione says, tilting her head against Ron’s shoulder with a disappointed sigh.

“I was hoping we’d at least get a proper duel when it all fell apart.” Ron grunts when Hermione jabs him in the ribs with her elbow. “Nothing dangerous! Just _Tarantallegras_ and the like.”

“Well, I was truly hoping that they were _mature enough_ to get along now. Since they’re both _full-grown adults_ who agreed to set aside their differences at the beginning of the term. Apparently I was wrong, Ron. Very, very wrong.”

“A little help would be nice, guys,” Harry says, leaning back as far as he can so Malfoy can’t accidentally-on-purpose hit him in the chin with his stupid, blond head. “It’s not a bloody spectator sport. Get off, you fucking prat! I was here first, you know!”

“You… had it for three… nights in a row,” Malfoy growls, pausing for breath every time he tries to shove his arse further onto the armchair. The same chair where Harry is sitting sideways with his legs hanging over the arm. “I know you’re _the Saviour_ , but that doesn’t mean you get to have the best chair in the common room every night. Somebody needs to remind you that you have to share.”

“First come, first served, Malfoy. You want the comfiest armchair, you need to get here earlier. Otherwise, you’ll have to settle for one of the many other _perfectly fine chairs in the room_.”

Harry shifts his hips to try to knock Malfoy onto the floor, but the slippery bastard hooks one leg over the arm of the chair and the other over the back. He’s halfway in Harry’s lap now, all pointy elbows and shoulder blades. Harry’s tempted to hit him with the book of Quidditch strategies he’s holding over his head. It’s a hardcover. Nice, sharp corners.

Instead he takes a deep breath and bellows, “GET OFF!” right into Malfoy’s ear.

Malfoy instinctively pulls his head away and the top half of him slips downward. He catches himself with a hand flat on the floor.

“NO! You move, Potter! Let someone else have a turn.”

“Comfortable, Malfoy?” Harry asks. “Are you enjoying the chair now?”

“Oh, yes, it’s wonderful. What a nice cuddle we’re having, especially with your leg right up against my—”

Ron makes a choking sound and Hermione closes her book with a slam. Harry looks over at her and feels his anger shrivel up at the sight of her shrewd expression. He knows that look. He fears that look. And when she draws her wand, he knows he and Malfoy are utterly, utterly fucked.

“Well, since you two are so cozy there, you should enjoy it for a while. Ron and I will go study in the library so you can have a bit of privacy with your _beloved chair_.”

“Granger, please butt out for—” Malfoy begins.

Before he can finish, Hermione silently casts a spell with a swirling motion. Harry recognises the wand movement as some kind of Sticking Charm and his eyes widen in horror.

“ _Hermione!_ ” Harry cries. “Take that off!”

He drops his book behind the chair and tries to wedge his hand between his chest and Malfoy’s back to push him away. Malfoy doesn’t move at all—not in the direction Harry wants him to, anyways. He locks the arm that’s holding him off the floor and presses back even harder against Harry’s abdomen.

“Come on, Ron,” Hermione says, reaching for the school bag at her feet. “We’ll come back and check on them in a little while. And we’ll let the other Eighth Years know that they should stay out for the evening.”

Ron gives Harry an apologetic look as he trails after Hermione. Harry’s not angry about it. He and Ron both know better than to cross her when she sets her mind on something.

Harry looks at the ceiling and lets out a frustrated growl. His evening had been going so well up until now. There was treacle tart for pudding; Ginny confided in him that the new Slytherin Seeker was so hapless that he had as much of a chance of spotting the Snitch as a Confunded yeti; and best of all, the prized chair was his for the taking when they returned to the Eighth-Year common room after dinner. And a wonder of a chair it is, wide enough to accommodate any sitting position, with soft, blue upholstery and pillowy cushions that are perfect for long study sessions and short naps. Or short study sessions and long naps.

Now he’s stuck in said chair with the world’s biggest, pointiest, ponciest git.

“Stop squirming!” Harry says. “I’m trying to get my wand.”

He attempts to twist so he can reach into the right-hand pocket of his jeans, but the fabric is firmly attached to the back cushion of the chair.

“You stop!” Malfoy squeaks. “Didn’t you hear me say where your leg is pressing against me?”

Harry freezes. He didn’t pay attention when Malfoy said it the first time, but when he looks down he can see that Malfoy is practically straddling his left leg.

_Oh, bloody hell._

Harry takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “Okay, I can’t get my wand out. Can you reach yours?”

“I don’t suppose you’re capable of a wandless Summoning Charm, by any chance,” Malfoy says in a small voice.

“For Merlin’s fucking sake, where’s your wand, Malfoy?” Harry snaps.

“In my robe pocket. Under my bag. On the other side of the sofa.”

“In a hurry to get in the chair with me, were you?”

“Shut up, Potter.”

Malfoy starts shifting around again, seemingly trying to determine if Hermione’s Sticking Charm has missed any part of his body. Harry does his best to ignore the warm torso leaning against him and the silky blond hair inches from his face. If he concentrates hard enough, maybe his brain won’t register that he’s in a rather intimate position with _Draco Malfoy_ … who apparently wears a very delicious-smelling cologne and makes low, throaty sounds when he’s frustrated.

Malfoy stiffens for a moment, then relaxes. “I think I have an idea,” he says. “Please don’t…”

“Don’t _what_?” Harry asks.

“Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not really the freaking out sort, if you hadn’t noticed,” Harry says witheringly.

Malfoy takes a breath, then says in a rush, “We need to take our clothes off.”

“WHAT?” Harry cries. “I am _not_ taking my clothes off!”

“Listen, you pillock, only our clothes are stuck to the chair, not us. If you _stop freaking out_ for a moment, you’ll see that.” Malfoy gusts a heavy sigh that Harry can feel where they’re pressed together. “Okay, since I’m the one that’s already halfway off the chair, I’ll take my clothes off, but you’ll have to help me.”

“Help you… take your clothes off,” Harry repeats. His tongue doesn’t seem to want to cooperate when he forms the words.

“Yes. Unlace my shoes and hold me up so I can get my shirt off,” Malfoy explains. “It’s either that or wait until Granger or someone else comes back.”

“All right. Fine,” Harry mutters, reaching under his legs to unlace Malfoy’s left shoe.

Malfoy tries to move his foot when Harry’s done. “The shoe’s stuck to the chair. Just loosen the laces some more so it can slip off easily.”

Harry does as he suggests, then reaches for the other shoe at the end of the leg that’s dangling over the back of the chair. It’s a long stretch, but he just manages to grasp the ends of the shoelaces with the tips of his fingers. Harry pushes the shoe halfway off, then Malfoy bounces his leg until the shoe flies off, narrowly missing the lamp next to the sofa.

“Shirt next,” Malfoy says.

He loosens his Slytherin tie and slips it over his head before starting on his shirt. Harry can’t help following the movements of Malfoy’s long fingers as he slips each button through its hole, revealing a narrow strip of his pale chest.

“Can you help me get this arm out?” Malfoy asks, extending his right arm.

Harry slowly reaches down to grasp the front of the shirt and the cardigan Malfoy’s wearing on top of it. He feels Malfoy flinch when his fingertips brush against warm skin.

“Lean forward a bit,” Harry tells Malfoy, and then he pulls the shirt and jumper as far as he can off Malfoy’s shoulder. He holds it there while Malfoy bends his arm and pulls it out of the sleeve. Harry finds himself staring at the curve of Malfoy’s bicep and gives himself a mental shake. _It’s just an arm_ , he tells himself. _Get a grip._

“All right, I’m going to need you to hold me up so I can lift this other arm,” Malfoy says. He pulls Harry’s arm across his chest. “Like this. But tighter. I’m supporting half my weight on this arm, you know.”

“And how did that happen?” Harry mutters.

“Some arsehole shouted in my ear, that’s how,” Malfoy replies. “You actually have to _hold me_ , Potter, not just let your arm rest there like a Flobberworm. Can you move your other arm at all?”

“No, it’s stuck to the chair all the way down to my wrist,” Harry says, wiggling the half-numb fingers of his left hand.

“Then wrap this arm around me. Like this.” He takes hold of Harry’s right wrist and presses it flat against the bare skin of his lower rib cage. “Now try to keep hold.”

Malfoy experimentally lifts his hand off the floor to make sure he won’t fall, then wriggles until he can shake the shirt and jumper off his left arm. When he’s done, he leans back against Harry’s chest, panting slightly and massaging his wrist.

Harry keeps his hand pressed into Malfoy’s side, wondering how the fuck he’s ever going to forget the feel of the warm, silken skin under his palm. He’ll have to take up Seamus’ offer to get him royally pissed this weekend. He’s going to drink until he erases the memory of this entire experience. Including (and especially) the fact that he now knows what Draco Malfoy’s nipples look like.

“Almost there. Just the trousers now,” Malfoy says in an unsteady voice, reaching down to open his flies.

Harry forces himself to look away. Seeing the upper half of Malfoy is bad enough; just the thought of seeing any more makes Harry feel perilously close to (mildly!) freaking out for the second time in one night. Not that he’s never seen another bloke naked, of course. Years of dormitory living and Quidditch locker rooms made that unavoidable. Harry tries to convince himself that this isn’t any different, but then again, none of his dorm- or teammates was squirming, half-naked, up against him.

 _And none of them were Malfoy,_ his unhelpful brain reminds him.

“Fuck,” Malfoy murmurs. “Fuckity fuck.”

“What?” Harry asks, startled.

Malfoy huffs an incredulous laugh. “The back of my shirt rode up and… my pants are adhered to the chair as well.”

“Oh, my god.”

“Potter, I’m going to need you to do two things for me,” Malfoy says very sternly. “First, you have to close your eyes. Second, I need you to swear—and I mean swear on everything last thing you hold dear and on your honour as a Gryffindor—that you will _keep your bloody eyes closed_ until I get my robes on.”

“Yes, okay! I swear I won’t look!” Harry almost shouts. The room suddenly feels about twenty degrees warmer. He can feel himself starting to sweat inside his shirt.

“Close them,” Malfoy orders, looking up as far as he can to make sure Harry’s doing it. “And just… do what I tell you to without opening them. Keep holding me with this arm for a minute.”

Harry keeps his eyes squeezed shut as he feels Malfoy reach across him to grab the back of the chair. Malfoy then pulls himself a bit more upright and lifts his hips to scoot back an inch or two. _Merlin,_ he’s making the throaty sounds again as he rocks against Harry.

“That’s as far as I can get that way.” Malfoy says. “I’m going to have to put my hands down on the floor and slide out of my trousers. Lower me down? Carefully!”

He takes his hand off the back of the chair and twists his torso so that he’s leaning out toward the floor. Harry does his best to ease him down, but his hand is so sweaty that Malfoy slips from his grasp and lands with a grunt.

“I said carefully, you dolt!” Malfoy takes a deep breath. “I’m going to crawl forward now. Eyes closed!”

“They are closed! Just hurry, will you?” Harry pleads. If Hermione and Ron come back now, while Malfoy is slithering out of his pants, Harry’s days in England are over. He’s going to have to start a new life on a remote, Pacific island under an assumed name. He’ll simply _never_ live it down.

Malfoy grits out terse instructions while Harry grips the back of the chair and tries not to think about the fact that Malfoy’s bare arse is probably inches away right now. The sounds of Malfoy’s heavy breaths and his skin sliding against his clothes are loud in Harry’s ears.

With a thump and a curse, Malfoy pulls himself free and lands in a heap on the carpet.

“Keep your eyes closed, Potter! I’m going to get my robes and then I’ll end the spell for you.”

Harry tries. He honestly _tries_ not to look, but his eyes seem to open of their own accord. And there, hurrying away from the chair, is Draco Malfoy, completely starkers. From his broad, straight shoulders to his narrow waist; from the round curves of his arse all the way down his coltish legs. Gobsmackingly and breathtakingly _naked_.

Harry gives himself away with a choked gasp. Malfoy’s head whips around to look back at him.

“POTTER!” Malfoy shrieks, diving behind the sofa. “You promised! You swore not to look!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to,” Harry wails, clapping his free hand over his eyes.

“I can’t believe you!” Malfoy fumes. “You are an absolute _bastard_ , Potter.”

“I really am sorry! Can I open my eyes now?” Harry asks meekly.

“Yes.”

Malfoy, quite pink in the face, is standing now and fastening his school robes, his gaze resolutely pointed downward at the buttons. Harry finds his modesty both surprising and rather charming.

“You really don’t like people seeing you naked?” Harry asks.

“Not in the middle of the sodding common room, I don’t. And certainly not _you_.” Malfoy turns even pinker, the flush spreading down his neck. Then he mumbles, barely loud enough for Harry to hear, “Not like this, anyways.”

Harry’s left speechless for a moment, but manages to find his voice again when Malfoy begins walking towards the door to the dormitories.

“Malfoy, the spell! Undo the Sticking Charm!”

Malfoy pivots on his heels and slashes a _Finite_ at the chair, then a Summoning Charm to retrieve his clothes and shoes. With his arms full, he throws one last glare at Harry and stomps away.

“You can have the chair tomorrow night!” Harry calls after him.

“Oh, fuck off, Potter!”

Harry gingerly puts his feet back down on the floor and massages his left shoulder. He feels a bit disorientated, truth be told. All the times recently when Malfoy brushed against him unnecessarily or gripped his bicep as they were navigating a crowded staircase take on a different meaning now.

 _Not like this,_ he said.

Harry leans back and slides down until his head rests against the back of the chair. He should go find Ron and Hermione in the library and work on his Charms essay, but he gives up on the idea almost as soon as he thinks of it. There’s no way he’ll be able to concentrate now. There are _images_ in his head. Unforgettable ones… of long, pale limbs and flushed cheeks. And _ideas_. Ideas that Harry definitely didn’t have an hour ago, but are certainly going to require a great deal of thought. Preferably while he’s alone.

He gets clumsily to his feet. He’ll have a bit of privacy in the dorm until Ron comes back. Harry looks down at the chair with a wry smile before he leaves.

It really is a bloody wonderful chair.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come visit me on [Tumblr](https://xanthippe74.tumblr.com/)!


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